


In This World and the Next

by Mums_the_Word



Series: Paranormal [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: A Life-Affirming Ending, A New Beginning, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, metaphysical elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:18:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8262352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: If Peter Burke thought that having Neal in his space was sometimes a chore, being haunted by his ghost was certainly no picnic either. Of course, Neal is as charming, entertaining, and challenging as a ghost as he was a mortal. This one will run the emotional gamut for the reader: deep angst, comforting comradery, nail-biting worry, and, finally, an endearing and joyful ending. So, those of you who are bold, take the plunge and read the following chapters of the story.





	1. The Tragedy

     There was a very strong Oriental man on either side of Peter holding each of his arms in a tight grip. The formidable pair made sure that the FBI agent was positioned, front and center, to witness the terrible debacle before him. Neal was lying on the floor of a warehouse enduring a seemingly never-ending torture. Again and again, the downward plunge of the rebar tore into his prone body. The evil man wielding the instrument of cruelty seemed caught up in a frenzy, so, over and over, Peter heard the nauseating sound of unyielding metal thwack into human muscle and bone. Neal had stopped crying out and moving long ago, even before the SWAT team finally breached the space. When Peter’s captors saw the weapons pointed at them and reluctantly released him, all that a distraught FBI agent could do was sink to his knees and begin a mournful keening.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Peter and Neal had gone undercover a few weeks before to infiltrate a Chinese triad who were heavy into the drug trade and human trafficking. Neal had posed as a potential backer for their enterprise, and Peter was supposed to have been his bodyguard. Somehow, Neal’s real identity must have been uncovered before this latest meeting that had turned deadly. Peter suspected that the lethal triad was determined to make an example of Neal before they put a bullet into Peter’s own brain. Peter’s FBI team had rescued their boss from certain death just in the nick of time, but they had been too late for Neal.

     The polished mahogany casket sat atop a bier at the peaceful cemetery that overlooked Neal’s beloved New York City. June and Elizabeth had taken care of all the details because Peter remained almost in a frozen fugue state. He now sat in the row of chairs at the gravesite, silent and dry-eyed, simply because he had no more tears left in his body to shed. Thankfully, June had the fortitude to deliver the one and only eulogy that day. She was strong in the face of tragedy, having already been through this ceremony of grief more than once during her lifetime. Standing proud and tall, she began to speak in a soft voice.

     “Neal was a very special and unique person—actually, one of a kind. I believe that many people may say that was a good thing because how would the world have handled more than one Neal Caffrey. But, they would have been so wrong. What this cruel world needs are _more_ people like Neal. He had a good and gentle heart, and, when he loved, he loved fiercely, faithfully, and unconditionally. And, he was just as generous with his forgiveness—grudges simply were not his style. Why waste time with anger? Life was too short to embrace hatred. He preferred to reward his disparagers with one of his most charming smiles, and then he got on with the business of living.

     Make no mistake, Neal loved life. I never saw him depressed or disheartened for very long. If there was a bump in the road, he just figured out a way to surmount it, and he got on with living. Actually, he grabbed life with both hands. It was almost as if he tried to cram everything into his existence as fast as he could. Perhaps he had a premonition warning him that his time on this earth would not be a lengthy one, and he would not live to be old.

     Neal was many things to many people, and he touched a lot of lives in his few years with us. He was a surrogate son to me, and like a brother to others. And, he became so many other embodiments to those who gravitated into his orbit—a friend, a partner, a lover, a confidante, a champion. To put his life into perspective, he meant something to everyone here today. We will mourn him, but, we definitely will not _ever_ forget him.”

     You could hear a pin drop when June had concluded those brief, poignant words. She then genteelly grasped her granddaughter’s arm, and as she passed Neal’s traumatized handler on her exit from the gravesite, she bent down and whispered softly in his ear.

     “Peter, please be kind enough to come to my home this evening around 8 PM.”

     Peter thought that he may have nodded, but he wasn’t sure. He turned to answer June properly, but she had already melted into the vast crowd that had quietly assembled behind the immediate mourners. Peter was truly amazed at the turnout.

     He saw Reese Hughes, Kyle Bancroft, and Walt Furlong all standing side by side, somber in their dark suits. Of course, Clinton and Diana were right behind them, and Peter was amazed to see Lauren Cruz. Apparently, the young agent had flown in from her present position in Chicago for the funeral. Sara had also flown in from London, and Peter noticed that she had literally shredded the tissue in her hands. Another redhead, Agent Kimberly Rice, was in the process of offering her more from her own purse.

     The sheer number of people was astounding. Peter recognized many faces even though he could not put a name to the sundry file clerks and secretaries throughout the 21st floor of the FBI building. Peter would bet that Neal had known each and every one of their names, as well as those of their spouses and children. Neal was a people person, and “people” from all walks of life loved him. And, many owed him their lives.

     There was UN Ambassador Adam Wilson and his son, Christopher Harlowe, whom Neal had saved from the possibility of a lifetime in a Myanmar prison. Next to them were the very wealthy Stuart Gless and his daughter, Lindsay. Lindsay did indeed owe her life to Neal’s temporary pact with an old foe. Then Peter’s eyes spied the elegant Sophie Covington. The beautiful blonde had obscured her face with a short, black veil from her small pillbox hat. It reminded Peter of another funeral—that of Sophie’s wealthy husband. Neal had saved her from being abducted that fateful day.

     Josh and James Roland were also in attendance, with James holding fast to his small daughter’s hand. Savannah was safe because Neal had negotiated with her kidnapper until Peter could locate the child and whisk her away to safety. David Sullivan’s appearance took Peter back in time. It had been one of their early cases, with Peter and Neal ultimately taking down a corrupt judge and saving the Sullivan’s home from foreclosure.

     Peter almost did not recognize Julianna Laslo because he had met her so many years before as well. The young woman’s grandmother had been the “Young Girl with Locket,” and, although Peter never called Neal on it, the FBI agent knew that his CI had made sure that the sentimental portrait remained in Julianna’s family. 

     Peter ticked off other mourners in his head. There was Dana and John Mitchell, Taryn Vandersant, and even the thin foreign model, Tara “something,” whom Neal had squired around during that over-the-top Fashion Week extravaganza that Neal threw, much to Hughes’ consternation.

     The diminutive Dr. Drugov of the “impenetrable vest” invention was here to pay his respects to the man who had saved his life in a parking facility. Chloe Baker and Evan Leary, two star-crossed young lovers who met in an exclusive private school, solemnly held hands and mourned a kind and understanding mentor. Even Scott Rivers was present, escorted by a prison guard. Somehow, “Robin Hoodie” had managed to wrangle a bereavement pass to come to say goodbye to another brazen former thief—the one person whose words had managed to influence the outcome of Scott’s life.

     Over the years of their sometimes-tumultuous partnership, Peter realized that he always had focused on Neal’s shortcomings and missteps. Now, seeing these people here today, Peter finally comprehended just how much good that Neal had done in those same years. It was humbling to register that fact only after Neal’s death. There was so much that Peter should have told him, but didn’t, when he was alive.  

     Mourners slowly began meandering quietly back to their cars, and Peter took note that there was one person conspicuously absent in the crowd. Peter kept scanning those departing figures looking for a small, bald man with thick glasses. Even if Mozzie had affected a disguise, he certainly could not hide his short stature. Peter thought he may have glimpsed a shadow lurking behind a grave monument of a large, ornate angel, but the afternoon light could have been playing tricks on his mind. Peter needed to connect with Neal’s best friend, because perhaps only Mozzie could truly share the depths of Peter’s sorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Later that night, Peter forced himself to drive to June’s home. As he parked his car at the curb, he could not help but notice that the mansion was lit up like a Christmas tree. A raucous party seemed to be in full swing when he rang the bell. June greeted him warmly, and with still-nimble pickpocketing fingers, relieved the FBI agent of his credentials and plopped them into a 17th century Japanese Imari porcelain bowl on the sideboard.

     “There are no cops or robbers here tonight, Peter,” the lady of the house informed him. “The guests are all simply friends of Neal’s who are holding a good old-fashioned Irish wake in his honor.”

     In a daze, Peter slowly made his way into the Grand Salon overflowing with people, all laughing, talking, and drinking. Gordon Taylor, the international heist mastermind, was tickling the ivories on the piano as Alex Hunter sang an old German drinking song in a surprisingly clear, sweet voice:

 

_“Those were the days my friend_

_We thought they'd never end_

_We'd sing and dance forever and a day_

_We'd live the life we choose_

_We'd fight and never lose_

_For we were young and sure to have our way._

_Those were the_ _days, oh yes those were the days.”_

 

     The only other people that Peter recognized were the mysterious and sultry Egyptologist, Raquel Laroque, and Mozzie’s quirky, tech-savvy friend, “Sally-no last name.” He assumed the rest of the guests were members of the forger community, fences, and other con artists—a virtual cornucopia of crime from every walk of life.

     Someone suddenly pushed a glass of single-malt Scotch into his hand, and then a hush fell over the room. Peter watched in fascination as Mozzie, eyes puffy and red, stepped into the center of things, and began a much-skewed rendition of Marc Antony’s tribute to Caesar upon his death.

 

_“Friends, Fellow Miscreants, Suit, lend me your ears;_

_We come not to bury Neal, but to praise him._

_The evil that men do lives after them,_

_The good is oft interred with their bones._

_Do not let it so be with Neal._

_Let us talk of his deeds,_

_Let us laugh and celebrate his life._

_He was our friend, but, alas, he is no more.”_

    

     Glasses were then raised in tribute and refilled again and again. One after the other, each “miscreant” claimed the floor and told outrageous tales of Neal’s cunning and daring. After all, that pesky “statute of limitations” was moot now. Some of these deeds were things that the FBI had always suspected Neal of committing, but could never prove. However, most of the more stunning exploits concerned crimes that Peter had never heard about because they had been carried out abroad. Peter was astounded at just how much felonious “living” Neal had managed to cram into his abbreviated existence. The FBI had only managed to scratch the surface.

      Peter marveled at the fact, so evident now, that Neal had straddled two very different worlds. With suave finesse, he had swanned comfortably through both, never losing perspective nor panache. Neal could be whatever you needed him to be at any given time. Although a chameleon, he was sincere in whatever role that he was playing at the moment, so you believed in him. Peter had believed in him, as had Mozzie, and now, damn it, he was lost to them both!

      Sometime around 2 AM, Peter had lost track of how many drinks that he had consumed. However, he realized that he was now very seriously inebriated. Most of the crowd had thinned out, and June’s hired help was collecting plates and glasses onto silver serving trays, a subtle hint that the farewell sendoff was over. Peter was dismayed to see that Mozzie was nowhere in sight. June, however, came and sat beside him and placed a gentle hand on his arm.

      “I hope, Peter, that this ‘celebration’ of Neal’s life tonight may have helped a little. Grieving will be a different process for each of us, but we don’t have to travel that dark road alone.”

      Peter simply stared mutely at the kind matron, not knowing if he had the coherence to answer politely. June certainly could read between the unsaid lines.

      “Peter, you are seriously into your cups, and it would not be prudent or safe for you to drive. I can either call you a cab, or you can spend the rest of the morning here until you sober up.”

      Peter found himself again gaping at this kind lady trying to process what she was saying. Finally, he managed to croak out a question of sorts.

      “Neal’s room?”

      “Of course, Darling. Can you make it up the stairs on your own?”

      “Course I can,” Peter managed to slur.

      That was a bit of drunken overstatement. By the third flight, Peter was literally crawling on his hands and knees, one step at a time. Nevertheless, somehow, when he entered the door to the loft, he felt that he had come home to a sanctuary. He flopped onto the bed, inhaling Neal’s lingering scent in the bed linens, and fell into a deep stupor that may have passed for sleep.

      Sometime, in the pre-dawn hours, as the rays of the morning sun were barely cresting over the skyscrapers beyond, he opened his eyes and stared at his CI seated in a chair, one ankle crossed over a knee, watching him intently. Neal was wearing one of his spiffy three-piece suits, and the familiar fedora that he favored was cocked at a rakish angle on his head. The apparition that seemed to be Neal smiled fondly at Peter, but didn’t say a word. The hung-over agent felt comforted for the first time since his friend’s death. Peter exhaled deeply and closed his eyes once more, but when he opened them again hours later, Neal had vanished.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

      At Hughes’ insistence, Peter had stayed home for a week. His first day back on the 21st floor of the FBI building had not gone well. When he exited the elevator and pushed through the glass doors, the first desk that he encountered was Neal’s. Peter immediately lost it and began bellowing, “Who did this? Who did this?!”

     Diana was brave enough to stand and approach her boss.

     “We thought it might be easier for you if we cleared away his things, Peter, so you wouldn’t be reminded of Neal every time that you looked down into the bullpen.”

     “Well, maybe I want to be reminded of him,” Peter spat out at his favorite junior associate.

     “It’s too damn soon to box up his life and pack it all away as if he never existed! Doesn’t anybody get that? It is disrespectful, and it’s cold and unfeeling.”

     “I’m sorry, Peter. Everything—it’s all safe in your office,” Diana answered timidly.

     Hughes had come out onto the little balcony and had witnessed Peter’s tantrum.

     “Peter,” he said softly, “my office, please.”

     And that is how Peter found himself with an open-ended bereavement leave of absence. It was definitely not a punishment, Hughes clarified. The old man realized the depth of the bond that Peter and Neal had shared, and it would be cruel and counterproductive to tell him to cowboy up. There was no expiration sell-by date on mourning, so Hughes would allow Peter to proceed at his own pace. He also suggested some psychological grief counseling, but he was pretty sure that fell on deaf ears. Peter arranged his features into a more bland façade, collected the cardboard banker’s box of Neal’s knickknacks, and stopped by Diana’s desk to apologize profusely for his outburst. Then he left the office barely half an hour after he had arrived.

~~~~~~~~~~

     It was hard to be at loose ends with no schedule, no purpose, no objective other than to get his emotional life back on an even keel. That was easier said than done. In the days that followed, Peter found himself in a state of inertia. He now bought his favorite beer by the case instead of six-packs, and seemed rooted to the sofa staring at the television through daytime soaps, evening dramas, and interminable infomercials long after the late, late talk show hosts had signed off. El begged him to take a short vacation to some peaceful island, or, at least, to talk to a therapist. Peter ignored her pleas, and, night after night, his patient wife fell asleep alone in their bed.

     Today, the long-suffering woman was out of town overseeing a large, intricate wedding on Long Island. As was his new habit, Peter had knocked back at least a half-dozen beers before noon, and was in a twilight doze on the sofa when Satchmo’s sudden whining pierced his consciousness. When Peter cracked an eye in the dog’s direction, he saw the Lab wagging his tail and looking excited. Well, he’d let him out into the backyard in a few seconds. Then the inebriated man felt something soft pelting his face, and groggily opened his eyes once again.

     Neal was seated in the Windsor chair facing him with a toy trebuchet in his hands. He was launching small cannon balls made of paper in Peter’s direction, just as he once had done in the White Collar office. Today he was dressed in casual jeans and a sweater, and had an impish grin on his face. Peter simply stared at him in disbelief, suspecting that he had finally crossed into the realm of alcoholism with accompanying hallucinations.

     “Yer not real,” Peter slurred as unequivocally as a drunken man could be.

     Neal smiled sadly. “I’m as real as you need me to be, Peter. And, apparently, right now, you really do need me to be here. So, Partner, since you can’t seem to let me go, I suppose that I am in for the long haul.”


	2. "Great Caesar's Ghost!"

     Peter continued to stare at the apparition who was now petting a contented Satchmo.

     “You are _not_ real because there are no such things as ghosts,” the tipsy man said with certainty.

     “Of course not,” Neal agreed. “I exist only in your mind, Peter. Right now, you are talking to me out loud, but that’s not really necessary. All that you have to do is think your words and I can silently respond to them in your head.”

     “So, you’re saying that you can read my thoughts!” Peter wasn’t really comfortable with that.

     “Pretty much,” Neal agreed. “So, think only good thoughts, Peter, so that you don’t scandalize me with anything prurient.”

     Peter snorted, “Like that could ever happen, Neal!”

     Peter now had a new idea. “Maybe I’ve just gone round the bend and have become a stark-raving mad lunatic,” he postulated. “Maybe Hughes and El are right. Maybe I should see a psychiatrist before I wind up medicated against my will in a rubber room at Bellevue.”

     “No, no, no,” Neal responded worriedly. “Don’t let anybody shrink our heads, Peter. That would be a travesty. We can get through this together on our own without some bearded Dr. Freud impersonator attributing all of our shortcomings to improper toilet training.”

     “So, you’re just going to haunt me for the rest of my days? Is that how this works, Neal?”

     “Only for as long as you need me, Peter.”

     “How about Mozzie? Are you going to invade his head space as well?” Peter wanted to know.

     Neal smiled affectionately. “Mozzie is tougher and more resilient than one would think. He’s a survivor, and, in time, he will move on, as he should. He doesn’t suffer from separation anxiety like you do.”

     “Well, he looked pretty broken up at your funeral, Neal. How can you be so sure that he will just ‘move on’ so readily?”

     Even incorporeal Neal was a master at misdirection, and steered the conversation away from Mozzie.

     “So, how was my funeral? Anybody show up to send a semi-reformed felon on his way to the hereafter?”

     “You don’t know, Neal?” Peter asked. “Wasn’t your spirit there to observe everything?”

     “Peter, I’ve just explained that I only exist in your mind. And, to tell you the truth, your mind that day was like a blender stuck on a frappe setting, so I got absolutely nothing—just a bunch of white static.”

     “It was …. tasteful,” Peter finally settled on that description of the formal interment. “Certainly a far cry from the boisterous wake that June arranged at her house.”

     Neal smiled delightedly. “June always could throw a good party! I’m really going to miss her. She is one of a kind.”

     “That’s exactly what she said about you, Neal,” Peter said wistfully.

     Finally, Peter had to ask. “That horrible day in the warehouse, Neal—do you have any recollection of the beating?”

     Neal had picked up on the tension that vibrated in Peter, so he answered gently and carefully, trying to ease the terrible heartache in the man before him. He had detected the presence of so much helplessness, as well as survivor’s guilt in Peter’s mind.

     “I think that I must have died pretty quickly that day, Peter. The only pain that I felt was yours.”

     When Peter looked at him with troubled eyes, Neal again skewed the conversation away from agonizing memories.

     “Now, let’s not talk about that, and get on with what we have to do today. We have places to be and people to see. Go and make yourself a pot of really strong coffee to sober up. Then take a cold shower and get dressed because we are off to the hardware store. El has been nagging you to fix that leak in the kitchen sink. Let’s knock her socks off with your dazzling handyman skills when she gets home. Maybe we can bump things up a notch and actually buy some flowers, too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     By the early afternoon, Peter and his spirit guide were on their way to Home Depot.

     “I suppose that’s it useless for me to tell you to buckle your seatbelt,” Peter noted.

     Neal laughed. “Just keep your eyes on the road, Buddy, and stop getting distracted. I’m already dead, but let’s make sure that you don’t join me. And remember, do not start talking out loud to me in the store because then somebody will throw a net over you and cart you off to the funny farm. Normal conversations are okay here in the car because people who pull up alongside of you will just assume that you are singing to the radio or talking on your Bluetooth.”

     Peter had a sudden inspiration. “Maybe I’ll put one of those ridiculous little adapters in my ear and people will think that I am talking on the phone.”

     Neal just gave Peter a droll look. “Aw, c’mon, Peter. You’ll get the hang of this whole back and forth dialogue thing. Just talk to me in your mind, and I’ll answer, loud and clear.”

     Once he was walking the plumbing supplies aisle, Peter was determined to keep silent as he purchased the necessary items. Neal kept quiet as well so as not to tempt fate. After all, Peter was still in the novice phase of training, and slip-ups were bound to occur from time to time.

     Later that day, as Peter lay underneath the leaky sink trying to concentrate on the metal trap and flange, he found himself becoming increasingly annoyed by the constant thump, thump, thump above him. Of course, the instigator of that irritating sound was Neal, who was seated on a kitchen stool repeatedly tossing and catching his rubber band ball.

     “Can you please quit that, Neal? It’s driving me crazy. Why don’t you take Satchmo out into the back yard and throw a ball for him?”

     Neal sighed dramatically. “Peter, I’ve explained over and over, but I don’t think that you have assimilated the concept. I only exist in your mind. Unless you are capable of astral projection, I cannot be anywhere unless you are there as well.”

     Peter slid out from the small space and frowned up at Neal. “I think this whole situation with you is like an out-of-body experience, _Pal_. So, what do you have to say to that?”

     “Well, _Buddy_ , this weird thing was not my idea,” Neal retorted with a hurt look. “You’re the one who caused it to happen because you can’t let me go. You made me a part of yourself, so I’m along for the ride, whether I like it or not!”

     Suddenly, Peter was ashamed of his harsh words. He never wanted to hurt Neal, either dead or alive. The contrite man suddenly felt the sting of tears.

     “Neal, I never got to say goodbye to you. I never said all the things that I should have said along the way. Sometimes, you were a real pain in the ass, but you were a good, well-intentioned pain in the ass, a person who tried to help so many other people with their troubles. And ….. and you were my best friend,” Peter finished quietly.

     Neal’s face had softened. “I know all of that Peter. It never had to be said because I already knew, just like you knew that the ridiculous tracking anklet wasn’t what was keeping me tethered to you here in New York.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     When El arrived home later that night, she was delighted with the unexpected impromptu repair as well as the dozen red roses in a vase on the counter. She was most happy, however, to see Peter off the sofa, bathed, shaved, and in clean clothes again.

     “Oh, Peter, are you feeling a bit better?” she asked hopefully. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

     “Yeah, Hon, I know that I haven’t been myself, and I’m sorry,” Peter started his apology. “It’s just been so hard for me, you know, to come to terms with losing Neal in the horrible way that I lost him.”

     “I know, Peter, I know,” Elizabeth said sadly. “I can’t imagine how awful that was for you. But, Neal would want you to start living your life again. He respected and loved you in his own way, and he wouldn’t want you to keep grieving.”

     After a short pause, she suggested almost timidly, “Maybe you could sleep next to me tonight in our bed instead of down here on the sofa.”

     “Yeah, Peter,” Neal urged Peter’s brain receptors, “make love to your wife. Since I live vicariously through you, when you don’t take advantage of a good thing, I miss out, too.”

     Peter seemed taken aback and mumbled, “You have no idea how twisted that sounds.”

     “What did you just say, Peter?” El asked quizzically. “I don’t think that I heard you correctly.”

     “Um …. I said you have no idea how terrific that sounds,” Peter backpedaled as Neal snickered in his head.

     When El was safely upstairs running a bath, Peter took the opportunity to complain to Neal.

     “This thing of you being there in my bed is disturbing on so many levels, Neal. I’m definitely not into a ménage a trois.”

     “Then don’t think about me, Peter,” Neal said logically. “Keep all your amorous attention focused on your wife. But, if you slip up for a second, don’t get a wedgie in your tighty whities. I’ve been the third person in your marriage ever since you started chasing James Bonds. El is used to sharing you with me. You know that’s true, so don’t bother trying to deny it.”

     Peter threw Neal a venomous look and stomped up the stairs, but he did take the unsolicited advice. His total focus remained on his wife, and, for the first time in weeks, he slept soundly through the night until Neal’s persistent nudging awakened him at 6 AM.

     “I’m feeling frisky this morning, you debauched old man, so let’s go for a run. We can stop afterwards and pick up some cronuts and upscale gourmet coffee for you and El. A celebration is definitely in order,” Neal concluded with a lecherous look in his eyes.

     So, shoulder to shoulder, Peter and Neal’s ghost ran through the neighborhood, with only Peter’s athletic shoes making a slapping sound on the pavement. He had to admit that he felt a new invigoration, and a determination to make things right again with his wife.

     “Maybe I’ll take El out to dinner tonight to that special little Italian restaurant that we both love,” he informed his running partner.

     Neal stopped midstride, crossed his eyes comically, and dropped his head to his chest in frustration.

     “Peter, can’t you be a little more original and upscale? I’m really not into little tables with red checkered tablecloths and dripping candles in old wine bottles. It reminds me of the cutesy scene from that kids’ movie, ‘Lady and the Tramp.’”

     “Well, Neal, as you are so fond of telling me, where I go, you go. You do not get a say in this matter. I want to go to our special, _inexpensive_ restaurant, so stop being a culinary snob. That’s just not who I am!”

     Neal actually harrumphed. “Well then, Mr. Scrooge, I’ll just go quiescent for the night!”

     “What does that mean, exactly?” Peter wanted to know.

     “It means,” Neal threatened, “that I simply won’t talk to you the entire time. So there!”

     “Fine!” Peter retorted.

     “Fine!” Neal echoed.

      Peter had to have the last word. “I really think it means that you’re just pouting because you didn’t get your way.”

     Neal refused to answer.

~~~~~~~~~~

       After another week passed, Peter had pruned all the bushes in the backyard, painted the guest bedroom, and cleaned out the tool shed.

     “I’m getting bored with all this domesticity, Peter,” Neal complained. “I need challenging intellectual stimulation, so it’s time that we went back to work.”

     “I don’t know if we’re really ready, Neal,” Peter waffled. “Maybe another week at home would be good.”

     “Come on, Peter,” Neal cajoled. “You know that we’re ready. We just have to jump into the cold ocean water all at once, and then we’ll get used to it again.”

     Reese Hughes was delighted to hear from Peter once more.

     “We’ve all missed you here in the office, Peter, but are you really ready to come back? You have been through a major trauma, and no one would think less of you if you needed more time.”

     “I’m ready, Reese,” Peter insisted. “Neal would want me to get back in the saddle again.”

     “Well, okay then. I’ll tell your team, and we’ll all be looking forward to seeing you again next week.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     On Monday morning of the next week, Peter put on his Brooks Brothers suit and was trying to smooth down his wrinkled lucky tie.

     “Seriously, Peter?” Neal said forlornly. “Please take off that monstrosity that makes my eyes bleed.”

     The con man was spiffily attired in a dark pinstriped suit complete with pocket square and tie bar. He was clutching his fedora in his hand as he rummaged through the “Neal” box in Peter’s closet.

     “Take the bust of Socrates, Peter. Put it on your desk and pat his head for luck before every operation that we go on,” he suggested.

     Peter looked Neal in the eye and asked solemnly, “Did you do that before we met with the triad, Neal?”

     “Let’s not think about that today of all days,” Neal said sympathetically. “We’re starting a new, innovative chapter in this partnership, Peter, so we need to keep things upbeat and positive.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Everyone in the White Collar office greeted Peter with smiles and hugs, and by tacit agreement, did not mention Peter’s previous temperamental behavior. They were respectful of his feelings, and knew that they could never truly fathom the depth of his loss. And Peter was very thankful for their caution, but, at the same time, he sincerely wished that they would stop walking on eggshells around him.

     “It’s just going to take some time, Peter. Cut them and yourself a break, Buddy,” Neal advised.

     The two partners who were rolled into one entity started out slowly with mid-level fraud files. By early afternoon, Neal was stifling yawn after yawn.

     “Turn the page, Peter. You’re zoning out again, and I can’t solve this thing if I can’t see all the information. Maybe we need another cup of what passes for coffee in this joint,” Neal suggested.

     Nonetheless, by the end of the day, Neal had successfully prodded Peter in the right direction, and two knotty cases had slowly unraveled. Arrests would now take place, and people would be going to jail. It had been tedious and boring, but they had tenaciously soldiered on, and now had something to show for all the dull, mind-numbing hours. Thankfully, by the end of the week, a new intriguing case came in. A large Salvador Dali painting had disappeared from the Channing Gallery, and there were no leads as to how that stupendous feat had been accomplished.

     “Yes!” Neal pumped his fist into the air. “Finally, a case worthy of our expertise.”

     While Peter walked and talked with the curator, Neal made several circuits around the room as well. Later, out of earshot in the hall, he advised Peter of his findings.

     “Someone sprayed opaque paint across the cameras in the room that held the painting. However, the cameras outside of that room are clean. So, I think if we watch the outside footage of the after-hours foot traffic, the only people that we will see are the cleaning crew coming and going as scheduled. They have to be the culprits in this little caper, Peter. It’s obvious that they couldn’t just waltz out carrying a 6x9 foot painting, so Dali’s work still has to be in the display area somewhere. Have someone dismantle those movable partitions, and I’ll bet you’ll find your painting inside one of them. Most likely, at some point, the cleaning crew planned to wheel all of them out of the room to another location away from the cameras when they waxed and buffed the floor. That’s when the painting would take wing and really disappear.”

     That afternoon, Peter and Jones determinedly unscrewed panel after panel until, finally, the garish colors of the Spanish surrealist’s work peaked out at them. The would-be thieves quickly confessed, and another baffling case was closed. Butch and Sundance were back with a vengeance, so criminals beware!

~~~~~~~~~~

     Peter and Neal’s next case involved embezzlement. It was obvious that a highly regarded hedge fund manager was skimming profits off the top of his clients’ portfolios. However, the FBI could not prove it. They had explored the old tried and true method of following the money trail, but had come up empty-handed.

     “Tell me all about this light-fingered dude, Peter,” Neal eagerly exhorted Peter. “Paint me a picture so that I can zero in on the flaws.”

     Peter obliged by informing Neal that the middle-aged man had recently divorced his wife of twenty-three years, citing irreconcilable differences. There were no children involved, so there was no need for further interaction between the two former spouses. She had gotten the Scarsdale house in the divorce settlement, as well as the Mercedes, the beach house in Narragansett, and considerable alimony on the first of every month. He was living in a modest high-rise condominium in the city.

     “Let’s pay this former wife a visit,” Neal suggested. “In my expert opinion, a spurned and angry ex is most likely a treasure trove of incriminating information that she is probably bursting at the seams to share.”

     “That’s your _expert_ opinion, Neal?” Peter said as he rolled his eyes. “These profound words of wisdom are coming from a guy who has never in his life actually tied the knot!”

     “Peter,” Neal said condescendingly, “I’ve watched enough Maury Povich and Dr. Phil to claim expertise on the subject. It’s almost banally formulaic.”

     So, Peter indulged his ethereal sidekick, and it did, indeed, prove enlightening.

     “That stupid weasel had a mid-life crisis and started thinking with his little head,” the formidably hostile woman told them as she leaned back on the Chippendale settee in her Scarsdale McMansion.  “He took up with a buxom, bleached-blonde bimbo and is probably overdosing on Viagra trying to keep her happy.”

     “Quite an alliterative turn of phrase,” Neal chortled in Peter’s head. “Keep her talking, Partner. I don’t think that we’ve heard the best part yet. Keep digging!”

     All Peter had to do was raise his eyebrows inquiringly at the woman to do the trick.

     “I had a shark of a lawyer and soaked the despicable cad in the divorce settlement for everything that he’s worth,” the ex claimed smugly. “So, I have to wonder what the allure is for some 20-something little twit. I’ll bet that it isn’t endearing love!”

     The vindictive woman was even helpful by providing the name of the mysterious new siren, and the next stop for Peter and Neal was the young woman’s pricy apartment on the Upper West Side. It soon became evident where all the purloined money was being squandered. When Peter flashed his badge at the ditsy “buxom bleached-blonde bimbo,” she folded like a Cub Scout’s unanchored pup tent. She claimed that her sugar daddy always insisted that everything be paid for with cash or money orders. She never, ever saw him write a check.

     Unfortunately, for both her and the ex-wife, the FBI made sure to derail the gravy train, and the horny hedge fund manager found himself disgraced and headed to prison. Maybe that was actually a reprieve for the financially strapped guy who was trying to satisfy two greedy women at the same time.

     Another win for the Caffrey-Burke team! Or, maybe it should be termed the Burke-Caffrey team, because an inspirational ghost shouldn’t get top billing.


	3. The Flashpoint

     There continued to be many more ticks in the win column for the dynamic duo. They managed to intercept a cache of blood diamonds coming into New York Harbor aboard a Liberian freighter laden with a cargo of machine parts. Neal had encouraged Peter to trace the sea route of the vessel after it had left its homeport in western Africa. The ship had initially followed a northerly heading taking them right past Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone. That impoverished third-world nation was notoriously designated as ground zero for the mining and selling of diamonds sold for profit to finance ethnic wars in the area. With warrant in hand, Peter had boarded the ship along with a cornucopia of other federal agencies designated by acronyms. They found a dazzling array of merchandise that definitely could not be confused with “cogs, cams, or rotors.”

     The next case would have fit right into Mozzie’s wheelhouse. Someone was pedaling what they claimed was an authentic historical find on the black market. “The Hutchinson Letters” were infamous in the early history of the American rebellion against an oppressive Great Britain. According to the legend, the fledgling American colonies had sent statesman Benjamin Franklin to England on a political mission to keep things on an even keel with the Mother country during some perilous times. He had resided there from the mid 1750s to the mid 1770s. In 1773, he had somehow acquired possession of some inflammatory letters written by Thomas Hutchinson, the British lieutenant governor of the Massachusetts colony. The content was incendiary propaganda aimed at the upstart, rebellious colonists in America. Franklin forwarded the inciting letters to a friend in Massachusetts, who then arranged for them to be published in a Boston newspaper. The power keg of revolution had been primed, and, two years later the War for American Independence began in earnest.

     “Contact the guy, Peter,” Neal urged, “and act like you’re interested. He’s obviously just a greedy, conniving amateur because any history professor worth their sheepskin knows that the London Museum has everything pertaining to the Franklin years locked up tight in their archives. However, the average collector of Americana may not be aware of that. Those letters are really an arcane piece of American history, and the way that Franklin handled the affair was a blot in his copybook. So, it is rare for an historical author even to annotate that little foible in Franklin’s biographies.”

     “So, good old boy Ben Franklin was involved in a conspiracy,” Peter chuckled. “Yeah, Mozzie would love this,” he agreed.

     “Peter,” Neal said after a few minutes contemplation, “if you somehow managed to catch Mozzie up in a sweep during a sting, would you arrest him?”

     Peter gave Neal a little quirky smile. “I would think that you and your little bald cohort in crime probably amassed enough wealth during your glory days that Mozzie will never have to resort to a nefarious caper to put food on the table for as long as he lives.”

     Neal returned Peter’s smile, but his was more wistful.

     “I really miss him, you know.”

     “I do know,” Peter answered softly.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Although a low-key operation, Peter contacted and then arrested the purveyor of a fraudulent document. It was almost embarrassing to put that easy lark in the win column. However, the next sting portended to be much more dangerous and lethal. ATF, working in tandem with the FBI, had narrowed down the identity of an arms trader who did business in the Bronx. Peter was going in as an interested buyer.

     “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Peter,” Neal warned.

     “I’ll have backup waiting in the wings after he shows me the goods. What’s the worst that can happen, Neal?” Peter asked.

     “You can get dead, that’s what can happen,” Neal specified. “And then where would that leave me?”

     “Definitely in peril,” Peter promised, “because then I could wrap my ectoplasmic hands around your equally insubstantial neck and squeeze when you get on my last nerve.”

     “Get serious, Peter. I’m nervous and more than a little worried,” the voice in Peter’s head that was Neal cautioned.

     Peter should have listened to that inner voice, because everything went to hell in a handbasket really fast. He had lost his gun in a hand-to-hand confrontation with one of three bodyguards, who were now all in hot pursuit of the leather-jacketed undercover agent as he hastily availed himself of the fire stairs up to the roof. There were a lot of landings in this trek, so Peter estimated that the roof was at least seven stories above the ground below. He used an old discarded piece of wood to jam the door shut after him, but he knew it wouldn’t hold for long. His FBI team knew that he was in trouble, but it was too close to call who would get to him first.

     “You need to get off this roof, Peter,” Neal urged. “You’re unarmed, so it will be like shooting fish in a barrel when those goons bust through!”

     “I _get_ that, Neal, I really, really do,” Peter wheezed out. “But there’s no way down except for the stairs, or if I can somehow magically sprout wings.”

     “There’s always another way, Peter,” Neal reassured his former handler. “Look around to see what we can use.”

     Peter found a rather bulky coil of black cable used to install Wi-Fi service to the many offices in the building. Apparently, it had been left abandoned behind a nearby air conditioning unit by the electrician’s crew.

     “That looks like enough length to get you down at least five or six stories,” Neal said as he did a quick calculation. “Wrap it around one of the vent pipes and then you can rappel down the side of the building.”

     _“Seriously, Neal?—I mean, seriously!”_ Peter found his vocabulary a bit limited in this instance.

     “Yes, Peter, _seriously_!” Neal said matter-of-factly. “You don’t have another option and you’re running out of time. So, like that Nike slogan says _—“Just Do It!”_

     “Neal, I am almost fifty years old and Quantico was a long, long time ago,” Peter protested. “I’ll probably break my neck just shimmying over the edge of the roof.”

     “Peter,” Neal began calmly, “I’ve done this many times before, so I can talk you through it. Trust me, Buddy, once you start down, the endorphins will kick in and it will be a piece of cake.”

     “Maybe I should worry about my bladder or bowels kicking in, you fool!” Peter snapped.

     Nonetheless, Neal was right. Peter was out of any other options, so he tightly secured one end of the cable to a protruding exhaust pipe, and then tossed the thick coil of cable over the side of the building.

     “Okay, Peter, here’s the deal. Take off your leather jacket and wrap it around the cable with just enough leeway so that it will slide under your hands as you move. Get on your stomach and slip over the side feet first. Next, wrap your hands around the jacket, and slip down approximately one story. Then stop briefly, bend your knees, and use your feet like springs to bounce off the wall before beginning the next downward slide. Just keep up a momentum, Peter, and, for God’s sake, don’t look down,” Neal advised.

     “Looking down is definitely not on the agenda for me, Neal! I _really_ don’t like heights.” Peter said decisively.

     “Yeah, yeah, Buddy, we’ll talk about your acrophobia later. Now _move_!”

     Of course, under Neal’s tutelage, Peter resembled a jarhead Marine in his descent, having only to leap the last ten feet when the cable ran out. His FBI crewmembers were in awe, and even Peter was amazed that he had managed to make the deadly decent and live to tell about it. Neal, of course, took all the credit and was irritatingly smug.

     “See, Peter, I knew that you had it in you!”

~~~~~~~~~~

     New cases at the White Collar office were a bit of a letdown after that—more mundane and subtle with no more daredevil displays of athletic prowess on anybody’s part. Neal thought things were copacetic until Peter received a phone call one day. Neal noted the tightness around Peter’s mouth and the anger in his eyes.

     “Neal …” Peter began.

     “I know, Peter, just let it go, please. You have been doing so well; don’t screw it all up now. They’re not worth it!”

     Peter had just been notified that the members of the triad were coming up for trial, and Peter needed to testify. Actually, five members of the triad—the foot soldiers who had been in that warehouse that fateful day—were being tried together. Keeping to a code of silence, they had not betrayed the higher ups in the organized criminal syndicate based in Hong Kong. The sixth man, who was responsible for beating Neal to death, had also remained mute, but he was being tried separately from his comrades for committing the actual murder.

     Although the state of New York had imposed a moratorium on using the death penalty in 2004, the United States federal government could apply the death penalty for crimes such as treason, terrorism, espionage, large-scale drug trafficking, federal murder, and attempting to kill a witness, juror, or court officer in certain cases. The Federal District Attorney was trying to establish that Neal Caffrey was in the employ of a branch of the federal government, thus, his murderer should be given the death penalty. So far, a ruling had not been established by the higher court.

     “We need to execute your executioner, Neal.” Peter vowed vehemently. “He needs to die, but lethal injection just seems too humane.”

     “Peter, it wouldn’t make a difference. Taking one life to avenge another is not miraculously going to afford you any peace. You have got to find that within yourself.”

     “I want justice, Neal!” Peter argued. “Justice for you, justice for me, and for all those people that you left behind.”

     Neal did not have an answer for that.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Of course, Neal was with Peter that day when he testified against the group of five stoic individuals being represented by a plethora of Oriental lawyers. He was also in Peter’s head when the verdict was handed down. All would be spending life without parole in a maximum-security prison.

     Keeping Peter in check was a whole lot harder the next time when the agent had to relate the painful manner of Neal’s death while testifying against the lone sixth man. He told the ugly, brutal tale through a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes, and if looks could kill, the unflinching Chinese man would have fallen over dead at the defendant’s table.

     “Keep it together, Peter,” Neal pleaded. “Don’t go all postal on me now.”

     The verdict was swiftly handed down with little deliberation—death by lethal injection! Peter immediately petitioned to be present when the execution took place. He wanted to watch this man die as toxic chemicals surged into his veins. He wanted to see him take his last breath with his own eyes, just as he had seen Neal take his. It wasn’t just spiteful revenge that Peter wanted—it was the justified retribution that Neal deserved.

     Now where would this story be without the proverbial fly in the ointment? Neal’s killer suddenly became very cooperative when faced with certain death. He swore that he would name names in the triad hierarchy in exchange for the sparing of his life and protective custody. Peter almost had a stroke when he found out that the government was going for it.

     Peter was beyond angry, and shouted Neal down every time the con man’s voice sought to sidetrack or calm him. He went to the federal prosecutor and the judge and lodged formal complaints, but his voice was drowned out by other eager and ambitious factions with more clout—those who would sell their souls to gain a toehold against organized crime. No cost was too high that it could not be paid, no ethic too rigid that it could not be bent. It made Peter physically sick. Yet again, Reese Hughes found himself insisting that Peter stay home for a few days.

     This time around, Elizabeth was not about to let things reach critical mass with Peter. She bundled her irate and obstinate husband into the car, and drove them straight through to Quebec City in Canada. She had taken advantage of a favor, and had accommodations at the century old Le Fairmont Chateau Frontenac in the old part of the walled town overlooking the peaceful Saint Lawrence River. It was a venerable establishment designated as an historical landmark, and it was a national treasure as well.

     It was early fall, so she and Peter could comfortably walk the idyllic cobblestone streets and lunch at little cafes. They also hiked the walking trails, and took pictures of the magnificent display of autumn foliage. The pair indulged in a horse-drawn carriage ride to the nearby Plains of Abraham and learned quite a bit of Canadian history.

     El did everything that she could to keep Peter busy with distraction in an attempt to pull him from his funk. As for Neal, he had decided to be quiescent during this little hiatus so that perhaps Peter could begin the process of letting go of his anger, and the more important process of healing.

     They arrived back home on Thursday, and Peter carried in their bags while El went to fetch Satchmo from the neighbor’s house. Once inside, Peter noticed that the answering machine was blinking frantically, and there were twelve messages waiting in the queue.

     “Wow, Peter, somebody really wanted to talk to you,” Neal observed now that he was back again in Peter’s head.

     Five messages were from Reese Hughes, so Peter returned that call first.

     “Peter, where have you been?” Hughes immediately demanded to know. “I tried you on your cell phone but couldn’t get through on that one either.”

     “El and I went away for a few days, Reese, and she insisted that I leave my cell phone at home,” Peter explained.

     “Well, stay put Peter. I’m coming over right away. In the meantime do not talk to anyone!” With that ominous dictate, the connection ended abruptly.

    Peter and Neal looked at each, both with matching perplexed expressions. “Very mysterious!” Neal remarked as he raised his eyebrows.

     Hughes was as good as his word, and arrived in a half hour. Peter and El joined him at the dining room table.

     “Peter, exactly where have you been since Monday?” Hughes began what seemed like an interrogation.

     “El and I were in Quebec, Reese, for a little R&R. We left on Saturday afternoon and just got back today, right before I called you,” Peter answered as he pushed a small glass bottle in the shape of a maple leaf in Hughes’ direction. “We even brought you back some maple syrup!”

     The tension in Hughes’ shoulders seemed to lessen, and he sat back and gathered his thoughts before speaking again.

     “Peter, on Monday afternoon the triad whistle blower was being escorted from prison into protective custody by the US Marshals when their SUV was run off the road and the prisoner was taken. He was later found on Wednesday by a group of teenagers in the very same warehouse where Neal Caffrey was killed. He had been bludgeoned to death with a piece of rebar that the killer thoughtfully left at the scene right next to his pulverized body.”

     Peter let out his breath in a whoosh as Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand. Neal stood behind Hughes with his brow furrowed in deep contemplation. Finally, Peter cleared his throat and found his voice.

     “Reese, I can show you the entries stamped in our passports. El and I were where I said we were. You can also check with the hotel where we stayed, and I have credit card receipts from some of the restaurants where we ate.”

     “Peter, I am not doubting you for a second, but you do need to have all your bases covered because questions will be asked by some intimidating people. Even though the interested federal parties got all the names that the informant spewed out before he was killed, they don’t want to have egg on their faces for this unfortunate turn of events.”

     “ _Unfortunate turn of events_ is a quaint way of putting it,” Peter remarked sarcastically. “Did they ever consider that other members of the triad sought payback, and wanted to make an example of a snitch to any other member who might be considering it?”

     “That’s most likely how the ‘powers that be’ will spin it,” Hughes agreed as he rose from his chair. “Just sit tight, Peter, keep your wits about you, and don’t make any comments to anyone that could be misconstrued or taken out of context. The last thing that you need is anybody casting a suspicious eye your way. Enjoy the last part of this week at home, but keep your cell phone on. Oh, and thanks for the syrup.”

     “Wow,” El said in a whisper after the old veteran left. “Just wow! I can’t think of anything else to say.”

     “This is going to take time for me to process,” Peter admitted. “Why don’t you go up to bed, Hon, and get some sleep. It was a long drive, and I know you’re tired. I promise that I’ll be up soon after I let Satch out for a bit. Love you.”

     “And I love you back,” she said as she dropped a kiss on his forehead and slowly made her way up the stairs.

     “What do you make of this, Neal?” Peter asked as he absently rubbed Satchmo’s ears.

     Neal had seated himself across the table from Peter, with his elbows bent and his hands cupping his chin. Now he tilted his head to the side and studied his friend intently.

     “I’m a part of you, Peter, so maybe you should tell me what you make of it, and what you’re feeling.”

     Peter snorted. “So what do you expect me to say, Neal? Should I say that I finally have closure for your death? Is that it? What exactly does ‘closure’ mean, Buddy? Does it mean that we can now simply _close_ a door on a chapter of our lives because some asshole’s death makes it over? Well, I just cannot do that—I just cannot forget all those years of working next to you, worrying about you, liking you even when you drove me crazy. That is just not possible. I cannot do it, nor do I want to. So, I guess you could say that there is no _closure_ for me!”

     Neal smiled sadly. “I once told you, Peter, that I would stay for as long as you needed me, so I’m not going anywhere.”


	4. A Package Deal

     As Reese had foretold, there were inquiries from the Justice Department, and Peter thought that he had handled them to everyone’s satisfaction. He learned from Hughes that the NYPD was overseeing the actual murder investigation, but had turned up no leads. In reality, they were not exactly contorting themselves inside out to find the culprit who had ended the piece of crap that the coroner had to scrape off the floor. Perhaps they concluded that justice had been served after all. Reporters sought out Peter to hound him with questions, but he refused to talk to any representative of the media, and the sensationalism quickly disappeared from the front page of the newspaper.

     On Sunday afternoon, there was a knock on Peter’s front door, and when he opened it, there was Mozzie, dressed in his usual rumpled, outlandish clothes.

     “Mozzie!” Peter exclaimed with a dazzling smile. “Long time—no see. Come in, come in!”

     Peter noted that Neal was bouncing on the balls of his feet and had a similar big grin on his face. El had come into the foyer to see who their new visitor was, and she looked just as enchanted, as she gave the little man a heartfelt hug.

     “Suit, it’s good to see you as well,” Mozzie said, ducking his head as if overwhelmed by his gracious welcome.

     “Moz, let me make you some tea,” El offered as she scurried into the kitchen.

     Mozzie gingerly perched in the middle of the living room couch, and peered up at Peter owlishly. Neal had settled himself right beside his old friend and was still smiling at him fondly.

     “How was your little sojourn into Canada, Suit? See any moose or Mounties among the flora and fauna of those northern climes?”

     Peter was perplexed. “How did you know that El and I went to Canada?”

     Elizabeth had heard the question and called from the kitchen to answer for their guest.

     “Mozzie actually was the one who called me to suggest it,” she explained. “And he was the one who was kind enough to make all the arrangements.”

     “Well, thank you, Mozzie,” was all that Peter could think to say.

     “You’re most welcome, Suit. I just thought …. well, I surmised that perhaps that ridiculous travesty perpetrated by the evil government establishment might have rankled you quite a bit, and putting some distance between you and New York was a good thing at the time. I know the deal that was forged to trade information for clemency was really hard to swallow for me. It just seemed to cheapen the value of Neal’s life—make it seem as if he never mattered.”

     “He mattered, Moz,” El said softly as she placed a mug of herbal tea in front of the little bald man.

     “Yeah,” Mozzie agreed, “he did. So I suppose that what happened next to his killer was perhaps a bit of divine intervention, sort of like the devil claiming his due.”

     Peter was staring at Mozzie thoughtfully, and Neal was no longer smiling.

     Mozzie suddenly brightened. “Anyway, let me enlighten you as to the reason for my impromptu visit. I just wanted to let you both know that I have decided to take a little vacation myself. I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning because I find that perhaps a bit of distance from New York may also be good for me at this time.”

     “Are you going to visit Mr. Jeffries, Moz?” El asked innocently.

     “Nooo ….. Perhaps a bit farther afield.” Mozzie was determined to be cryptic.

     Peter’s eyes were drilling holes into Mozzie, and the little man fought the urge to squirm. To pacify the Suit, he added a bit more information.

     “I think that I may go ‘abroad’ to re-visit some of those magnificent cities that I’ve been missing over the years. While Neal was tethered to New York, so was I. Maybe I shall make a pit stop in Greece eventually. Alex lives on one of those peaceful islands in the Aegean, you know. Or, maybe you didn’t know. Anyway, she has disrespected me so many times over the years of our relationship that perhaps it is payback time. I will be the guest from hell until I suspect that she is ready to push me off a cliff into the sea so that I am forced to sleep with the fishes for all eternity.”

     “So, you’re getting out of Dodge?” Peter summed it all up in that terse sentence.

     “For a time—yes,” Mozzie admitted as he abruptly arose from the couch. “As I have said, with Neal gone, there is really no reason to stay. So, Suit, Mrs. Suit, I’ll just wish you both an _au revoir_ and be on my way.”

     After Mozzie had made his exit and Elizabeth had returned to the kitchen, Peter looked at a solemn Neal and formed the question in his mind.

     “He did it, didn’t he?”

     Neal shrugged helplessly. “Yeah, I think he did. Maybe not personally, but he probably arranged it. He even made sure to provide you with an alibi.  Are you going to sic the NYPD on him for doing the wrong thing for what he considered to be the right reason?”

     Peter was pensive for a few moments before he offered an admission.

     “Maybe I think that what he did was the right thing for the right reason. Maybe he did what I wanted to do but couldn’t. You and Mozzie, Neal, are really a lot alike. You think with your hearts and fix things in your world regardless of the consequences or the dangers to yourselves. That’s why he’s going to ground. But, who knows—maybe his actions have brought him that elusive ‘closure,’ and, if so, I envy him. But I haven’t reached that peaceful state of acceptance yet, and I wonder if I ever will.”

     There was a profound sadness on Neal’s face as he studied his friend. “Maybe someday, Peter,” he whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Peter kept his word and continued to plead ignorance of any suspicions surrounding the triad member’s murder. After all, he had no hard evidence to offer. In time, it became a cold case for the NYPD. The world kept turning, and Peter and Neal pursued other active, as well as cold cases, within the FBI’s bailiwick.

     Peter continued to solve cases with Neal hovering in the background. However, there were now more long periods of quiescence, with Peter aware of Neal’s presence, but not actually seeing him. If the FBI agent concentrated hard enough, he could conjure up Neal’s image and have a discussion, but his ethereal buddy was usually more subdued, and seemed content to remain just on the periphery of Peter’s mind.

     Three months after Peter and El had returned from their interlude in Quebec, the unexpected happened. Elizabeth’s doctor had confirmed that the daily queasiness most assuredly was not chronic indigestion or the onset of an ulcer, but rather the early manifestation of a pregnancy. El was almost through her first trimester of unplanned motherhood, and a future mommy and daddy were over the moon. They had tried for years to add another life to their family, and it had just never materialized.

     Suddenly, Neal was front and center.

     “Hot damn, Peter! You are one randy old dog!” His ghost exclaimed happily.

     “It happened in Quebec, didn’t it?! I left you alone for a little while, and you and El went all ‘Adam and Eve’ on me and started begetting.”

     Peter could not help beaming and puffing his chest out with pride.

     “Not bad for an old man, huh Neal?”

     “I couldn’t be happier for you,” Neal said sincerely. “Good things should happen to good people. Now I suppose that you are going to be dragging me to all those Lamaze classes so that we can learn how to breathe through El’s contractions.”

     “Well, yeah, Buddy. Where I go, you go, but those days of huffing and puffing are a ways off. Because of her age, El is considered to be a high-risk ‘primipara’—at least I think that’s the word that her obstetrician used for a first time mother. Therefore, her pregnancy is going to be monitored very closely by a specialist. But, in a few weeks, the sonogram should show us the sex of the baby. You really need to be along for that.”

     “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Neal replied, a gleeful expression on his face.

~~~~~~~~~~

     The next month, Neal floated right behind Peter’s shoulder as the technician moved the Doppler across Elizabeth’s abdomen. Suddenly, a little starburst of light started flashing rapidly.

     “That’s the baby’s heart beating,” the technician explained. “Do you want to know what you’re having?” She then asked the new parents.

     “Yes!” Three people answered in unison, even though one voice was not heard by the tech.

     “It’s a boy,” she informed them as she zoomed in to highlight a small, dangling appendage.

     “We’re having a boy!” El said through her tears.

     “A boy!” Peter repeated with a smile on his face.

     “A boy!” Neal breathed in awe.

~~~~~~~~~~

     The very next week, Neal started peppering Peter with questions.

     “So, what are you going to name the little critter? Will he be a Peter Junior? Maybe you are considering naming him after your father, or maybe El’s father.”

     “I don’t know yet, Neal. El and I have time to decide after we give it some thought,” Peter avoided an actual answer.

     However, Neal was not done with the topic.

     “Please do not give the little guy some cutesy name like Biff or Bunkie. Other kids will make fun of him with a moniker like that. Give him a strong name that is easy to spell, and not something pretentiously weird like Ambrose or Algernon. Same goes for ambiguous names that could be either a boy’s or a girl’s name.”

     “You certainly have a lot of stipulations, Neal,” Peter complained. “Just stop being so intense and back off for awhile. We still have plenty of time to come up with a fitting name. Maybe we should wait until after he’s born. Then we can look him in the eye and the right name will come to us.”

     “Whatever,” Neal said glumly, but Peter doubted that this discussion was really over.

     Being pestered by Neal was moved to the back burner of Peter’s mind as he became involved in re-fashioning the guest room into a tranquil “Winnie the Pooh” oasis in Ashdown Forest. Because El read all the books about every phase of pregnancy, Peter felt obligated to read them as well. He took a fathers class at the local hospital and learned the proper way to burp a baby and change its diaper, and all about that dreaded malady called “colic.”

     Sometimes, things felt overwhelming, but hell, he had gone through training at Quantico, so this should be easy—right? At other times, Peter thought that his days running the gauntlet at the FBI’s training facility might have been easier.

     He would never admit it to his wife, but Peter felt more secure in his FBI office. This was the world that he understood and could control. Secretly, he suspected that becoming a father might mean losing control. Having to protect and keep a tiny human being safe from all the dangers in this sometimes-ugly world was like living a nightmare. How would he ever manage that?

     Suddenly, Neal, quiescent for so long, appeared in the chair across from Peter’s desk dressed in a black turtleneck and gray slacks.

     “You are going to be a terrific dad, Peter. How can you ever doubt that? You have so much love to give, and you are going to receive it right back from this little guy coming into your life. Down the road, if you inadvertently screw something up, he will forgive you because he loves you. And, when he goofs off—and inevitably, he will—you won’t stop loving him even as you mete out the consequences. That’s the way it should be because you share that special bond of being a family.” Neal’s affectionate smile was comforting.

     “When did you get to be so wise, Neal?” Peter asked softly.

     Now Neal’s smile was wistful. “I guess death gave me a new perspective on life.”

     “Well, did this new insight allow you to comprehend another truth, Neal? Do you now realize that I had come to consider you as my family, too?”

     “I do know that, Peter. But then, I think that I _always_ knew.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Peter certainly was aware that it was coming, but when it actually happened, he felt blindsided and terrified. El’s water had broken, and they were on the way to the hospital. As daunting as it seemed, they were finally going to meet their son. The new father-to-be was so busy timing contractions, rubbing El’s back, and fishing lollypops out of the birthing bag, that he completely forgot about Neal. His focus was now on the number of centimeters that his wife had dilated, and the strip of gray tickertape spewing out of the machine monitoring his unborn son’s heartbeat.

     Finally, they got the update. El was crowning, and it was time for some down and dirty pushing. My God, no wonder they call it labor, Peter thought to himself. This was work suitable for a brawny stevedore or a muscle-bound lumberjack. He found himself bearing down right alongside of El as she strained to force this child into the world. Suddenly, the most beautiful music ever composed filled the room as a slippery, waxy baby wailed in protest at leaving his cozy haven for the first time. He was perfect, with a thick head of dark hair, a button nose, and all of his fingers and toes. It was a true miracle.

     El was exhausted. The nurse helped her to clean up, and then the new mother fell into a deep sleep. Peter tiptoed over to the tiny bassinet and peeked at his son. As if realizing that he was being scrutinized, the child looked up and began fussing. Peter quickly picked up the small swaddled bundle and sat down carefully in the rocking chair. He pulled off the little blue stocking cap to expose a mass of brown ringlets, and unwrapped two tiny hands that were balled into little fists. For a long time, they simply stared at each other trying to make up their minds about something. For an hours-old baby, this little guy was surprising alert, and his gaze was intense.

     It was Peter who finally broke the silence.

     “ _Neal_ ,” he whispered aloud.

     Eerily, the baby’s blue eyes crinkled, and a wide smile appeared that no newborn should be capable of producing. A voice in Peter’s head whispered softly in response.

    “I’m here, Peter, and now I’ll be with you for a long, long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just could not leave this story here. It needed a more proper ending, so I wrote a sequel that I will post in a few days for those who are interested.


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